


hold my hand tight

by HappyCamper27



Series: send your fire [3]
Category: Fire Emblem Heroes, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses, Young Wizards - Diane Duane
Genre: Character Death, Don't copy to another site, Self-Insert, Suicidal Thoughts, brief suicide baiting? it's only one sentence but be careful, optional reading for bitg-verse, snippets and aus
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-17
Updated: 2020-02-27
Packaged: 2020-10-20 09:16:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,758
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20672945
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HappyCamper27/pseuds/HappyCamper27
Summary: Snippets and AUs of the BITG-verse.Current:Ordeals aren’t always flashy, or heroic.Sometimes, they’re just about making the decision to look someone in the eye, hold your ground and say, no,youmove.





	1. eyes covered in ink and bleach

Your earliest memory is of song. Voices echoing off of stone and mortar and wood, reaching to the high arches of a cathedral.

Cold, gray skies, and snow turning to slick ice on the stones.

You are small, and fragile, and so very tiny.

You stare out at the cold and gray and snow, listening to voices raised in praise to a Goddess you don’t believe in.

You are held close to a warm chest, a heartbeat thrumming in your ears.

This is your first memory. Kind of.

\---

By the time you are five years old in this new life, there are several things you know for certain:

First, this is most definitely _ not _ the world you lived in before. While it resembles monasteries and churches and cathedrals you’d studied, that you’d known before, the presence of _ magic _ sort of clued you in to the fact that you didn’t somehow manage to time travel to another point in time in your old world. 

Second, you’re an orphan. Apparently, according to the nuns and monks who care for you, your mother died giving birth to you. Your father killed himself not two months later from the grief.

You think he was probably a shitty dad, if he left you alone because he was grieving so much for his wife.

Grief isn’t an excuse to abandon your child, not like that.

Third, you’re in the world of Fire Emblem: Three Houses.

How do you know?

Well, it’s kind of hard to deny it when the green haired figure of the Archbishop Rhea--of _ Saint Seiros _\--leads worship every Sunday morning. Worship that, as a ward of the Church, you are required to attend.

Even a champion at denial like you can’t deny enough in the face of the reality staring you baldly in the face in the shape of a thousand year old woman who can transform into a dragon.

Idly, you thank any deity listening that you weren’t reborn as one of the major players in the game. You don’t want responsibility, not like that--don’t want to have the weight of a war and a country resting on your shoulders.

You’re more grateful that you weren’t reborn as Byleth, or one of the house leaders, idle fantasy as it may be.

That would have sucked.

\---

It’s also when you’re five that you start to notice you’re a bit--different, than the other children who live at the monastery. 

You can hear their heartbeats, hear the soft shuffle of feet on leaves or stone when you play hide-and-seek, tell whenever anyone tries to sneak up on you.

It’s small, but it’s noticeable, and it leaves you feeling more isolated than you already did--adult in a child’s body as you are. You’re the best at hide-and-seek, yeah, but the other kids also notice you’re different.

You’re not the only one--there’s Bryn, who’s seven and can lift the heavy supply boxes that normally take two people over his head, and Eleanor, who’s ten and has nails that can leave gouges in stone--and you’re not as obvious as others, but it’s still _ there _.

When you ask over your letters lesson that evening, Sister Rose smiles kindly at you. Condescendingly.

“The Lady Rhea blessed you at your birth, child,” she says, calm and utterly certain. “When your mother passed, you were soon to follow. The Lady Archbishop did not wish to see so young a life lost, and thusly granted you her mercy.”

You swallow heavily.

“What does that mean?” you ask, very quietly. 

“It means that your hearing is the blessing of the Goddess, passed to you by the Lady Rhea’s mercy at your birth,” Sister Rose says, gently tucking a stray lock of your brown hair behind your ear. “You must be grateful, little Saoirse, and thank the Goddess for your gifts; for it is only by her mercy that you yet live.”

That’s--a little on the nose.

But then, Sister Rose believes wholeheartedly in the Church of Seiros, in what Rhea preaches.

But you also have a sneaking, niggling, gnawing suspicion about what “blessing” Rhea gave you, when your mother died.

After all, if her blood could grant Jeralt a life of over a hundred years before he died, the idea of it granting something as simple as enhanced hearing surely isn’t out of the question.

The thought makes you more uneasy than you’d have thought.

\---

The idea of being the only one in the entire monastery who knows what Rhea is perfectly capable of doing--moreso, capable of doing and feeling _ completely justified doing it _\--makes you very nervous.

It doesn’t help that the Archbishop Rhea that you _ know _ is kindly, even saintly. She is warm, if distant, always ready to listen to a pestering child asking her questions when she has the time.

And yet--

\--and yet, you remember what she did, in that game in the life before. The way she had done nothing but take power, and instate herself as a deceptive tyrant, sweet honeyed words and proclamations of faith turning the faithful of the Goddess into a horde of fanatics at her beck and call.

It leaves you cold to your bones.

If you were brave, you’d say something, ask questions, question her to her face--ah, but you’ve never been brave.

You’ve always been rather more of a coward.

\---

And so you bury your head in the sand, let the cold and dark and quiet curled around your bones turn the noise in your ears into quiet buzzing, humming.

Let your mouth grow used to mouthing words of prayer and song and hymn and praise, going through the motions.

You are raised a ward of the Church, in service to the Church, your life pledged to the Archbishop and the Goddess through her.

The students of the Academy pass around you, ever changing like the tides that you’ve never seen in this world. There is a timelessness in Garreg Mach, as if the hand of time itself is held suspended over its walls.

The seasons pass you by.

\---

You’re ten when Eleanor, that sweet girl five years your senior, dies screaming, her own body turned against her in a torturous rictus of agony.

You clench your teeth, because you _ know _ why, deep down--

But you don’t dare say a word. You only hope that you won’t face the same fate, as you press yourself into the prayers, the hymns, the songs, the praise to a Goddess you don’t--can’t, won’t--believe it.

The adults mouth words of condolences, playing along through the motions of grief even as the Archbishop holds their strings.

It’s the first time you climb one of the towers and peer out over the edge, feeling adrenaline sick in your stomach alongside a painful numbness that you drag over your mind.

You don’t jump, not yet. Instead, you watch the stars, trying to pick out anything even remotely familiar.

You don’t jump.

That doesn’t mean some dark, sick part of you doesn’t want to.

\---

You’re waiting, you eventually realize.

It’s an idle fantasy, one that will probably never come true, but--

When you’re eighteen, an adult in the eyes of the Church and every country of Fódlan, you’re going to leave.

You’ll be just in time, you think, for the beginning of the game’s events.

Enough time to find a place to wait out the war like the stupid, useless coward you are, because you’ve never had the guts to take on responsibility the way you should.

\---

You’re fifteen when things shift, just a little.

Tansy, a sweet kid only two years younger than you, gets sick. She starts to waste away, her baby fat melting off and leaving her gaunt and hollow eyed, where her blue eyes used to sparkle with life and love and joy. 

Her blue eyes used to reflect the light back at you, like cats or owls or dogs, and it was honestly so goddamn cool and you just--

She can barely stand, now, where she used to run everywhere she went.

The adults mouth platitudes. Archbishop Rhea murmurs empty prayers, when you know that it’s her fault, because Eleanor had wasted away like this too, when her body turned against her.

When Rhea’s “mercy” turned cruel.

And Rhea just doesn’t care, because she does _ nothing _ to cure the pain she caused in the first place.

_ There is something rotten in the state of Denmark, _ you think quietly.

Someone should do something.

Someone _ will _ do something.

But are you willing to wait that long?

\---

You contemplate the view from the tower again.

You don’t jump this time, either.

\---

A long, drawn out few months later, Tansy gasps her last aching breath.

You watch her casket be lowered into the grounds of the graveyard, and something cold _ burns _ in your bones.

You hide under the numb, because you’re so angry and lost and _ afraid _.

You’re a coward, you want to run and pretend this isn’t happening and wait out the events that are only two years away--

Someone should do something--

Someone _ will _ do something.

You’re finding that you’re unwilling to wait.

\---

You begin to plan.

You try to lie to yourself, say that it’s just idle thought, but--

You know.

Lord Arundel, Cornelia, Tomas, Monica--

Thales, Solon, Kronya--

And, on the other side of it all, Rhea.

Seiros.

\---

You steal a dagger from one of the guards’ weapons and supply shipments, slipping it into the heavy folds of your habit.

You very carefully don’t think about the fact that your mind is rather firmly made up.

\---

When Byleth arrives at the monastery, you know you have very little time left.

You observe silently as Rhea sends them out as her muscle, trying desperately to manipulate Byleth under her thumb, into her willing little puppet to accept Sothis as the new owner of their body--

Accepting Sothis overwriting them.

Quietly, you pack your bags.

So few months left.

You count the days.

\---

Flayn goes missing. 

You watch Jeritza, the Death Knight, listen to the cold blood in his veins.

You don’t hunger for blood, or fighting, or death.

But there is something cold and dead about Jeritza, left cold and rotting away. Something that you share, deep at your core.

You’re both displaced, cold and distant--

Perhaps you shouldn’t be comparing yourself to someone who calls himself the _ Death Knight _, but you can’t help it. 

\---

Remire crumbles and burns.

Jeralt dies.

You never knew him.

Byleth--mourns.

It makes the cold in your bones burn all the more, because this would never have happened, had Rhea left well enough alone.

Had the Agarthans fucked off and realized that revenge is a cold, bitter reward when pursued to such extremes.

Neither of those things happened, and so you watch as Byleth swallows their grief and returns to teaching their students, teaching the future leaders of Fódlan as war looms on the horizon, all blissfully unaware.

You turn away.

Waiting, waiting.

You’re tired of waiting.

\---

The night before Rhea takes Byleth down to the Holy Tomb, green hair and eyes and all, desperate to force Sothis to take over, you visit her.

Your pack is ready, after all.

“Lady Rhea?” you say, very quietly. You’ve been quiet all this life.

“Yes, my child?” she asks, turning to look at you.

There are only two guards, and they’re at the door.

“I--I come to seek your guidance in a time of trouble,” you say, putting the words together carefully.

Are you really ready to do this?

“Of course,” Rhea murmurs, gesturing you into the connecting room.

As you step in, you silently stretch your magic over the two guards, urging them into a deep, healing sleep.

Faith is something all Wards of the Church pick up, eventually.

“I find myself at a crossroads, my Lady,” you say, as she stands across from you, beside the altar to the Goddess. “I must make a difficult decision, and I am not sure what to do.”

Rhea smiles, kindly. Condescendingly.

You’re reminded of Sister Rose, those many years ago, as she told you of Rhea’s “mercy.”

“Please, speak freely, my child,” she says kindly. “Tell me more of this difficult decision that troubles you.”

“Garreg Mach is my home,” you begin. It’s true. This place has been home to you for near two decades. “And yet, these last few Moons, I have found myself feeling a pull to the rest of the world, as if I may yet find my calling there.”

Rhea nods, as if she really understands.

Maybe she does.

You don’t really care.

“And--and I’m scared,” you confess, allowing your voice to break, your shoulders to shudder. “For, I am scared to leave my home, and yet, what if I disobey the Goddess in not doing so? Worse yet, to leave everything I know behind to face an uncertain future--to leave Riwan, and Melle, and all the rest of the younger ones, who know and lean on me!”

You may be laying it on a little thick, you think.

And yet--Rhea doesn’t bat an eyelash.

“Sometimes, dearest Saoirse,” she says, so very gently, “we must pass ourselves into the guiding hands of the Goddess, and trust Her to guide our lives where she will. If you are called to the world by Her voice, then go you must.”

You allow your shoulders to shake as you bury your face in your hands, the picture of the upset, hormonal teenager.

Rhea wraps you in a gentle hug, thinking you’re crying.

Maybe you are.

The guards are asleep.

Someone should do something.

Someone _ will _ do something.

And you’re tired of waiting around, so that someone will just have to be _ you _.

In one smooth motion, you pull the dagger from your habit sleeve and bury it in Rhea’s still beating heart.

\---

You flee in the middle of the night, blood on your hands, your mind clear as crystal.

The next morning sees a sunrise as red as blood.

Terrible things are coming, war and blood and grief, and you’ve just changed things terribly.

But--

Someone should do something.

That someone is just going to have to be you.

You’re done waiting for someone else to solve your problems.


	2. come along now

It feels like being sucked through a very small tube, squeezed and morphed and squished down to fit in a space where you shouldn’t and stretched like taffy.

The light itself is blindingly bright.

You reach for that sense of  _ other _ in your head, grasping for Sothis’s chiding, familiar voice.

_ ! _

The light flickers, swells--

You hit the ground, tumbling forward. You catch yourself, wincing at the sting of your palms scraping against worn smooth stone.

Smoke slowly disperses, and you blink, feeling--nonplussed. Confused. 

Sothis’s touch in your mind  _ hums _ , confused and familiar and vaguely comforting, like a hesitant pat on the shoulder.

“What--?!”

You dig your nails into the stone, pushing yourself to your feet. The smooth--not-smooth stone, carved with intricate designs inset with what looks like mother-of-pearl--is cool under your bare feet, and you resist the urge to bare your teeth and growl.

This is not where you were.

Stupid observation, but given that it’d been the middle of winter in the far north of Faerghus, and this place is--warm, and green, and surrounded by stone walls, and oh god this is  _ not _ what you think it is,  _ right-- _ ?

Wide brown eyes meet yours, and you swallow. White robes. Pistol.

Then those eyes soften, and they--she?--steps forward and kneels in front of you, setting the pistol aside. 

“Hello,” they say, voice warm and humming and gentle. “Are you alright?”

“Summoner--” the man, white-and-gold armor, blue-gold hair, steps forward. They wave him away.

“Alfonse,” they say firmly. The man--boy? Or is prince a better term? You sort of wish Father were here, or Nico--stops, a slightly frustrated look flickering over his face.

They turn back to you patiently. Waiting.

You swallow.

“Who are you?”

They give you a startled, wry smile. 

“Sorry,” they apologize. “I should have introduced myself first, shouldn’t I? I’m Luka. What’s yours?”

“Byleth,” you reply, glancing over at the man. Luka follows your gaze, before laughing a bit.

“That’s Alfonse,” they add, a mischievous smile curling their lips. “He looks scary, but he’s really just a softy, I promise.”

Alfonse splutters, and you resist the urge to snicker.

Sothis nudges you, giving the vague sense of  _ not-same _ ,  _ not-home _ .

You’d--kinda figured.

“Where am I?” you ask, and Luka pauses, smile falling away into something more awkward. They open their mouth, slipping on a fake smile, and you interrupt before they can say a word. “Don’t lie to me.  _ Where am I?” _

The scars on your arms ache as you tug on your magic.

You don’t like the idea, but if you have to--

Luka sighs.

“You’re in the Kingdom of Askr,” they explain heavily. “You were summoned in a ritual meant to summon the Heroes of other worlds--those who have legends and stories to their names--to aid the Kingdom.”

You clench your hands into fists, feeling the bite of your nails into your palms.

Something cold and afraid and heavy sits in your belly, the dark things that linger in your bones curling around it, tugging it into your throat, leaving you clenching your fists tighter, hoping the pain will loosen the stranglehold.

“Why?” you ask, in that deliberate, intent way of kids. “I’ve never done anything.”

Alfonse steps forward again, and this time Luka sends him a scorching look, and he flinches back.

“I don’t know,” they admit, turning back to you. “We never know who will be summoned, I’m afraid.”

It’s at this point that your stomach decides to growl, loudly.

There’s a pause, and then--

“Well then,” Luka laughs. “Would you like something to eat, little one?”

Sothis drapes mental arms over your shoulders, warm and comforting and familiar, and you deliberately force your shoulders to loosen.

“Yes, please,” you say, politely. 

You think you know what’s going on. But then, you’ve thought that before, only for it to bite you--better polite than dead.

Luka holds a hand out for you to take. You ignore it.

After a long, awkward moment, they laugh a bit, pulling their hand back.

“Right,” they say, giving you a tight smile. “Shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> have a bitg!verse and FE:Heroes crossover. 
> 
> Featuring a slightly older Dragon Kid--around ten or so--and our OC Summoner, Luka.


	3. it's every breath that comes before

Your earliest memory is of snow, and the cold, and your father’s face above you and horse’s hooves beneath. 

Your father holding you tight, holding you and your twin.

Branches reaching for the sky like claws, his heartbeat rich in your ears.

This is your first memory--of this world.

\---

Later, when you’re older, you think things through.

You’re not dead. That’s a big one--you can remember the quiet, floating darkness of death, holding you jealously close. This--is not death. You’re not sure it’s life either, but--

Well.

But you’re here now, and you’re not alone. Arguably, you haven’t been alone since before you were born here, kept close company even in your mother’s womb. You have a twin. An identical twin, actually.

You share blue eyes and blue-black hair and a serious, cold face with eyes too big and teeth just this side of too sharp.

Your father loves you both, sun-kissed hair and face warm and gently, even past weapon callused hands.

You love him too.

You love them both.

\---

Your names are Raim and Byleth Eisner.

Neither of you cry.

\---

When Solenne meets the two of you, she is obviously disquieted. The two of you are almost eerily in sync, you know, having only known Byleth and Father for these past two--almost three--years.

You know Byleth.

They’re--uncertain. They don’t really like the idea of Father going off and leaving the two of you, but neither of you have a choice.

Solenne barely tolerates the two of you.

Silently, you tolerate her.

When Father returns, the three of you don’t leave alone.

\---

Then Solenne tries to force the two of you into dresses, frilly smocks and all.

It’s Faerghus, on a major holiday, and the devout followers of the church will undoubtedly raise eyebrows at the two of you in ratty traveling clothes, but you absolutely refuse.

Dresses make you uncomfortable, like slime and needles under your skin, dragging and pulling and twisting. 

Byleth allows Solenne to shove them into a dress, placid and stone-faced. They pick at the hems absently, a faint frown on their face, as Father shows up and defuses the argument.

You don’t have to wear dresses if you don’t want to. 

Later, moonlight filtering down into the tent, Father snoring beside the two of you, Byleth looks at you.

The moonlight makes their pale skin glow, almost. Their eyes are serious.

“Do I have to wear dresses?” they ask quietly, enunciating carefully.

“Do you like them?” you ask in return, just as clear and careful.

Byleth pauses.

“Not really.”

“Then don’t.”

“Even if Solenne says so?”

“Don’t wear anything you don’t want to.”

Byleth nods. “Okay.”

A long, deep silence, filled with the sounds of Father’s heartbeat and the three of you breathing deep and slow.

The two of you don’t need to say anything more. You both settle in to sleep.

\---

Even as Father accumulates tag-alongs--Meilyr, Peric, Liane, and more--you can tell that discomfort surrounds you.

Specifically, you and Byleth.

Eyes just a bit too big, teeth just this side of too sharp, able to hear things from across the camp and see even in the dark.

Byleth has eyeshine.

You think you do too.

You try not to think about it too much.

\---

“Raim?”

“Yes?”

“You have a heartbeat.”

“...yeah.”

“And I don’t.”

“No.”

“...Are they right? Am I a monster?”

“If you are, so am I.”

“You’re  _ not _ .”

“Then neither are you.”

Their head presses to your chest, curling up against you as if starved for touch.

_ I love you _ hangs in the air between you, unsaid as always.

“I don’t like them.”

“Which ones?”

Byleth shifts to press their nose into your neck, and you dip your head to breathe in their familiar scent, milk and spice and frost.

“They make you sad,” they say instead.

“I’m usually sad.”

“I want you to be happy.”

“I’m happy with you, and with Father.”

“But you’re still sad then too, and they make it  _ worse _ .”

“...sorry.”

You don’t know what else to say. Byleth makes a frustrated noise.

“You make me happy,” you offer, and Byleth sighs, breath warm against the crook of your neck.

\---

Byleth doesn’t like Deòrsa, who looks at the two of you with rancid fear and malice.

You don’t like him much either, but--

You can hear the shreds of truth that he speaks of you.

Byleth isn’t possessed, or a monster, or anything of the sort, but you--

You died, and came back.

You’re not sure there’s anything more unnatural to this world.

\---

He throws you into the river.

He was  _ trying _ to kill Byleth.

Solenne pulls you out, Byleth hovering the entire time, panic twisting and curdling their warm milk-spice-and-frost scent.

Meilyr runs for Father.

Shivering, exhausted, and viciously cold, you slip into dark sleep.

\---

Your dreams are strange, feverish things.

Cold stone under your-not-your-not- _ your _ fingertips, green and black hair, green and blue eyes--

Watching a small bundle, thrashing helplessly, sink beneath moonlit water--

You are an observer alone. These dreams are not yours.

Do not worry yourself, little one.

This burden will not fall on  _ your _ shoulders.

\---

When you wake, it is to Byleth’s deep, steady breathing by your ear, their face pressed into your shoulder.

You’re in a warm, soft bed, snugly tucked in, and your head feels like it’s been stuffed with wool and cotton. Your mouth is dry as desert sand, and it tastes kind of like something crawled down your throat and died there, rotting away and leaving your throat terribly sore.

Father is sitting on a chair nearby, sitting vigil in the chill predawn quiet.

“She hasn’t left your side since Solenne pulled you out,” he says quietly. “How are you feeling?”

“Sick,” you rasp dryly. Father smiles, tired and drawn.

“He won’t do this again,” he says after a moment, something grim in his eyes. You jolt. “Deòrsa,” he adds, before you can say a word. “Byleth told me. Why didn’t you say anything about how they were treating you?”

“They’re not exactly  _ wrong _ ,” you say, without thinking, because any thoughts left in your head are strangled by thick cotton and  _ oh god you just said that. _ Good job.

Father stares at you for a long moment, before something like heartbreak flashes over his face only to be swallowed by something fierce and angry.

“ _ Don’t _ say that.”

It’s not Father’s voice.

Byleth shifts back, something angry trying its best to twist their face past the stone.

“You’re not a monster,” they say, digging their nails into the bedding, and you both feel it rip. “You’re  _ Raim. _ A  _ person _ .”

Father nods, turns to you, but Byleth isn’t done.

“If I’m not a monster,” they say fiercely, “neither are you. I’ll rip anyone who says you are into  _ pieces _ .”

That--

That was a growl.

Ripping itself from your twin’s throat, fiercely protective and viciously angry.

“Calm down, Byleth,” Father intercedes while you’re left stunned at this new side of your twin. “Deòrsa won’t do this again, sweetlings.  _ I’ve _ seen to that.”

Something just as vicious flickers over his face.

“Yes, Father,” you both chorus quietly.

After which, you promptly burst into hacking coughs. Who knew that talking with a sore throat and a congested chest could make you cough so badly?

You. You did.

You’re an idiot, sometimes.

But then, some things are worth being an idiot for.

\---

By the time you’re better, Byleth has--against all odds--made a friend.

Leonie.

The ginger-haired Jeralt fangirl. Or, she would be. Would have been?

Either way.

Your twin has made a friend--for once--on their own. 

You’re glad.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The plot bunnies had ideas, and this is what came out. More or less follows the same events as bitg, but with added dragon children. If a scene isn't mentioned so far, assume it probably turned out approximately the same as in bitg.  
Will likely be continued, bc twin!AUs are fun.


	4. nothing but your shadow's on your side

You’re not really sure how the book comes to be in your hands. It just--sort of  _ appeared _ among the small stack of books Solenne passed you one day, marking out the pages she wanted you to study for your next training session.

_ A Guide to Wizardry _ , it says in faded, gold embossed letters on the front cover.

Curiously, feeling tugged to  _ this one in particular _ , like a string tied to the back of your mind, you open it.

_ Wizards love words, _ it says.  _ Most of them read a good deal, and indeed-- _

You shut the book.

Your mouth has gone dry, and you swallow. “ _ A Guide to Wizardry” _ your  _ ass _ . This--

This is a Wizard’s Manual.

Which means that you-- _ you _ , of all people--are being offered the Wizard’s Oath.

A  _ fictional oath _ . To protect the universe, and slow down entropy. If this is real, then--the so-called Powers are offering you the Oath because somewhere, out there--there’s a problem that only  _ you _ can fix. 

No pressure, or anything.

Carefully, you set the book off to the side. You’re not refusing, you think firmly. You just--need time. To consider, because--really. You?

You’re a depressed kid who isn’t even fully human. Who isn’t even properly alive, if the Stone in your chest has anything to say about it. 

Why would they want you?

\---

Then--then comes the fiasco with Nico, and the lake, and you casting a spell you definitely weren’t ready for. The scars on your arms attest to that.

You can still see the man’s eyes going blank with shock and death in your nightmares.

You--

You don’t want to hurt people like that. Nico’s worth it, but--

You pull out the book from where it’s been patiently waiting, tucked into your pack.

_ A Guide to Wizardry _ , it says, in those faded gold letters.

You flip it open.

The Oath lies there, in clear letters on the page in front of you.

You breathe deeply, feeling the sense of  _ you-not-you _ in the back of your mind shift, interest and acknowledgement brushing against your own trepidation.

“In Life’s name and for Life’s sake...”

\---

You had thought that maybe your Ordeal would be something flashy and “heroic,” given that that’s what had been shown so often.

And really, you haven’t had the chance to think about it--the schedule of the company has continued as usual, training and travelling and moving along without pause.

The company has been getting worse lately, though. Not shabby, not losing their edge, but--

_ Demon _ , they’re saying again. Or maybe they never stopped, but are just now saying it where you can hear them.  _ Monster _ .

It--it’s not like they’re wrong. You’re still unnatural, an abomination masquerading as something sweet. 

You bite your lip, ignoring the tang of blood on your tongue as you run your fingertips over the binding of the book--your  _ Manual _ .

You pay no mind to the flash of red hair in the corner of your eye.

\---

You continue, listening to the growing whispers, which aren’t untrue but prick into you like thousands of tiny needles. Even Nico seems colder, more distant.

You’re dying by a thousand cuts, and--

You’re dying by a thousand cuts, and it  _ hurts _ .

\---

You want to tell Father.

Something...stops you.

You just...don’t want him to worry. You can take this, you’ve done it for years.

No need to worry him, right?

\---

It isn’t until you’re stuck, staring at Nico, the blood roaring in your ears, that you realize that  _ maybe _ , no, no you  _ can’t _ take this.

“What did you say?” you whisper, throat suddenly dry. Nico gives you this cold, scornful look, so at odds with the warmth that had made itself at home there not so long ago.

“I said that you’re a  _ demon _ , and you need to leave me alone,” he spits, and a chill runs up your spine. Have his eyes always been so cold? “You’re always following along after me and I’m sick and tired of dealing with you.”

You can’t seem to find your voice.

Nico’s eyes turn to chips of ice.

“You should just go die.”

The blood roars in your ears as you look into eyes as cold and dark as the abyss that once held you, and suddenly the world feels--clear.

You feel oddly detached as you realize.

Ordeals aren’t always flashy, or heroic.

Sometimes, they’re just about making the decision to look someone in the eye, hold your ground and say, no,  _ you _ move.

Looking into this Nico-that-isn’t’s eyes, you realize who’s been impersonating your friend these past weeks.

“I see,” you find yourself saying, looking into those cold, cold eyes. “Then--”

Not-Nico’s lips twitch into a cold little smirk.

  
“Fairest and Fallen,” you say very quietly. “ _ Greetings and defiance _ . And with all due respect-- _ fuck off. _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was looking through my files and found this little drabble, so I figured I'd toss it up. bitg is still more or less on a hiatus until summer--I have _way_ too much stuff going on IRL, but...  
I might have some more snippets soon, depending on how things go.
> 
> hope you enjoyed.


	5. the person that you were you cannot find

You stare out over the monastery walls, past the little town, into the blue, blue sky. Bluer than it used to be.  _ Clearer _ than it used to be.

Since you came back, and you and Sothis became simply  _ you-but-more _ , things have changed.

“Bylie?” 

It’s Nico.

You take a deep breath, letting his familiar nettle-and-honey scent help you relax. 

You still miss the smell of fire and rust and oil, as familiar as breathing.

“Are you okay?” He’s standing beside you, now, golden eyes concerned and warm and it makes you want to reach out and  _ break _ him, because how could you be okay?

Your world has been ripped out from under you, the three most constant people in your life ripped away.

You’re alone in your head for the first time in this life.

“How can I be okay?” you ask, looking away, because if you look any longer you may just lose control of those horrible thoughts. “I’m--”

You take a deep breath. Let it out slowly.

The world stutters around you, fracturing and healing in the same instant.

“Take your time,” he says, painfully patient.

You’re not okay.  _ Nothing _ is okay.

If you were ever human, can you ever be now?

“It’s incredibly depressing to realise that you have no family or friends around you who care,” you say, eventually, very quietly. Nico’s breath hitches. “ And it’s oddly freeing to realise that there’s no one there to stop you from just walking away.” 

You both stand there for a long moment, nothing but the sound of the wind rustling the leaves and the bird song to fill the silence.

“If you want to leave all this behind, I won’t stop you. I’ll miss you, but I understand why you need to leave.”

Nico--you hate him, for just a moment. You love him and hate him and it feels like your world is falling apart just a little bit more, because how could you ever hate the person who’s like your brother?

The answer is: all too easily.

You breathe.

“I know. And that’s why I want you to come with me.”

And you know, without even looking at him, that it’s not going to happen. You may think of him as a brother, but he has  _ actual _ family here, a younger brother who’s still shell shocked by the death of their sibling.

“I--”

It’s okay.

You’re not human, never have been, and are less so more than ever.

It’s only natural that you come second best.

“Okay.”

You stop. Blink.

“Okay?” you ask, finally turning to look at him.

He smiles at you, long and sad. It rips at you. 

“I’d give you the world if you asked,” he says, very quietly. “But you’ve never asked. How could I deny you this?”

You swallow. “What about your brother? Your father?”

“And what about my  _ other _ sibling?” he asks, giving you this sharp look. “What kind of brother would I be if I left you hanging?”

It hits you like a hammer to the chest, and suddenly, you kind of want to cry.

The world stops, judders, snaps and fractures. It repairs itself.

You can see both of you, many years forward--together, with Selina, the world falling apart around you, but  _ happy _ .

And oh, but you  _ want _ that.

To leave the terrible, awful future to itself.

You may be at the center of this storm, but that doesn’t mean that fixing it is your responsibility.

You’re allowed to be happy, right?

\---

The next morning, there are three beds more left untouched.

You’re walking away, because--

Well. 

It’s about time you’re allowed to be selfish.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prompt from [here](https://whygodohgodwhy.tumblr.com/post/190604551254/conversation-prompt).
> 
> For context, this is a possible future scene, wherein instead of deciding to stay around post-Guardian Moon, the Dragon Kid says _fuck it_.  
Non-canon, naturally, but something to look forward to in the main story.

**Author's Note:**

> also known as that AU where our self-insert wasn't reborn as Byleth.
> 
> also written while sleep-deprived so excuse any roughness, please.


End file.
